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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27278194">where shall I go? Where shall I run?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/convallaria_majalis/pseuds/convallaria_majalis'>convallaria_majalis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Jedi: Fallen Order (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Bondage, F/M, Femdom, Humiliation, Hurt No Comfort, Sadism, Torture, Unresolved, Whump, broken ribs, nonconsensual sexual arousal, speech restriction</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:21:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,126</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27278194</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/convallaria_majalis/pseuds/convallaria_majalis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Second Sister does like her souvenirs.</p><p>(Includes art!)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cal Kestis &amp; Trilla Suduri | Second Sister</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Interrogation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>November 2019: I see the promo material for Fallen Order and remark to my friends, “I don’t know shit about this game but that protagonist looks like a fucking snack.” Of course, I immediately forget about it and go back to writing about selkies.</p><p>October 2020: I breach containment to go see @the-son-of-dathomir for a pandemic vacation. We play about 5 hours of the game. I spend the entire 2-hour ride home drafting this fic.</p><p>Anyway, the point of this is that I wanted to get Cal in front of Second Sister when she’s at her most mysterious and terrifying. Everything else is set dressing.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Even before he awoke, the first thing he knew was the cold.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <em>He lay in the snow in a frozen field, his body crumpled in among the furrows where the crash had flung it. TIE fighters screamed in the sky overhead, lit occasionally by explosions or the flash of blasterfire. He struggled to move—he was supposed to be air support, the folks on the ground were counting on him—but his limbs refused to obey. Were they broken, or frozen? Or both? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It didn’t matter. He had to get airborne again, had to find a way to take down those fighters—but pain shot through him every time he tried to move, his gasps making the cold air slice at his lungs.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There was a pause in the fighters’ screeching, and now he could hear something else: the crunch of a pair of heavy boots on the snow.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Close. Too close. And now he found that even his head would not turn; he could do nothing but wait for them to reach him, and look up into the dark sky as it slowly filled with smoke.</em>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>Cal woke with a start, still fear-frozen from the dream and as uncomfortable awake as he had been asleep. The room was blindingly lit, and so cold his hands and feet were numb. He ignored it and forced his eyes open, squinting as he took in the hard durasteel floors and the black-paneled walls of the tiny room. The only object he could see was a short length of chain, one end bolted to the floor, and the other end... well, judging by the cold weight around his neck, it seemed to be attached to him.</p><p>Cal sighed. He supposed he should’ve expected something like this.</p><p>He tried to push himself upright and found his hands cuffed tightly behind him. <em>Dammit.</em> Well, that explained why one arm was stiff and the other dead-numb. With a great effort he got his knees under him and began to shake out his aching body—and then stilled, as he realized there was something strapped to his face.</p><p>Shaking his head this way and that, trying to look at his own nose, Cal eventually got a sense of what he was dealing with: a metal grating over his mouth and nose, with close-fitting straps, no doubt leather, that ran around the back of his neck. And then he remembered the fight when they brought him in. How at the last, pinned down and weaponless, he'd found the nearest un-armored limb and made sure the Empire knew he would fight as long as there was strength in him.</p><p>A muzzle. He almost laughed, but there was nothing funny about it. Oh, they were careful, and their attention to detail was excellent. If he hoped to escape, he'd have to be clever. Not to mention lucky.</p><p>He took stock of his position. His vest and toolbelt were gone, of course, along with everything inside them. Just his scrapper's shirt and pants were left. Cal was glad to have them but cursed himself for not sewing something useful inside when he had the chance. <em>Like lockpicks, which would come in damn well handy right now.</em> He prodded at his Force powers and found them horribly weak; they must have him on a powerful suppressant. Even moving the tumblers inside the locks would be as impossible as moving a mountain.</p><p>He wished he could at least sense the echoes on the objects in the room, to get a little more information about what he was in for, and almost immediately was relieved he couldn't. The Empire had one strategy, one honed technique that they wielded expertly. Either the last person who knelt in these chains was lucky enough to escape... or they had been brutally tortured, and disposed when they were no longer useful like so much trash.</p><p>Cal winced. Though the room was chilly, he felt his skin pricking with sweat. He'd been too young; his Temple training hadn't covered resisting interrogation. He couldn't possibly imagine giving his friends up, but in the face of what the Empire would do to him, how long could he hope to hold out?</p><p>He set his jaw. All that mattered was that it was long enough for them to get far, far away.</p><p>One of the panels in the wall slid open with a hiss, and Cal’s head snapped around. He knew the black-clad figure in the doorway at once: it was <em>her,</em> the helmeted Inquisitor who’d chased him off Braca. What was the strange title that trooper had called her? Something about... <em>sister?</em></p><p>Facing her with a lightsaber had been hard enough. He was not thrilled about doing it now.</p><p>She stepped inside, deliberately, as if to let Cal pay careful attention to the assured way she moved and the noise her boots made as they rang out on the metal floor. She was helmeted still, and although the dark visor was impenetrable as she looked down at him, he did his best to return her level gaze.</p><p>“Hello, Cal,” she said, in her smooth, cold voice. “Are you pleased to see me?”</p><p>Fear leapt in his chest, but he didn’t dare show it. “Give me my lightsaber and I will be,” he growled.</p><p>The Inquisitor lifted a gloved hand and gripped his jaw tight, merely laughing when Cal jerked back. She turned his head first one way and then the other—inspecting him, for what purpose he couldn’t guess. “Spirited,” she remarked. “I will enjoy bringing you to heel.”</p><p>She relaxed her bruising grip, and Cal shook himself free with a noise of disgust. He looked away, glaring at the floor, as the Inquisitor began to pace slowly around him. Looking him over from all sides.</p><p>For the moment he was glad of the cuffs. If he braced against them, she wouldn’t see how his hands shook.</p><p>She circled him, again and again, for what seemed like ages. How long had he been here? His knees were beginning to ache. He wanted badly to get on his feet, to make her look him levelly in the eye, but it was all too clear that the chain around his neck was too short to let him stand.</p><p>Cal’s fists clenched. Indignation and apprehension tumbled over each other in his stomach.</p><p>He heard the Inquisitor's feet stop. Behind and to his left. He could have seen her if he looked around but didn't want to give her the satisfaction.</p><p>"You <em>like</em> being a killer. Don't you, Jedi?"</p><p>And now Cal did look around, because it wasn't the question he had been expecting. "Wh- what do you mean?"</p><p>She gave a short laugh and stepped closer. "I've seen the footage. Our squads on Zeffo? You decimated them. You <em>enjoyed</em> it."</p><p>"That's not—"</p><p>"Not what?" she mocked. "Because they were Imperial soldiers, it wasn’t murder? Every one of them had families, people who cared for them, and you didn't even give them a fighting chance. You've come a long way from your Temple principles."</p><p>Cal turned his head away. She was manipulating him, trying to get under his skin, but what she said had the disconcerting ring of truth. Jedi were trained to engage only when absolutely necessary, and kill only as a last resort. On that train, the day the Empire found him—he'd been running for his life. He'd done what he had to to keep himself safe.</p><p>But now? Wandering around looking for statues and tombs? Chasing the well-nigh impossible dream of rebuilding the Jedi Order? Was that really something he could defend killing for?</p><p>And he had to admit, too, that it felt good to have the saber in his hands again. It felt good to fight, to use the skills he'd learned and perfected. But that didn't mean he <em>enjoyed</em> killing.</p><p>Cal screwed his eyes shut. <em>Did it?</em></p><p>A harsh yank on the chain around his neck dragged his gaze back to the Inquisitor. She was leaning in close now, so close that if he squinted at the red window in the visor he thought he could catch a glimpse of her eyes. Her closeness was unsettling. Cal found himself breathing hard.</p><p>"What do you know about the holocron?" she asked, and this was the question Cal had been expecting. He made his face go carefully blank.</p><p>"I'm not telling you anything."</p><p>She laughed. "Oh, but you will. Everyone cracks in the end."</p><p>"Are you going to torture me?" he asked, and then winced at how small and helpless he sounded. How small and helpless he felt.</p><p>"Of course, Cal." Her voice dripped with mock pity. She ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that made him recoil with its familiarity. "But not now. Right now I am simply softening you up."</p><p>She snapped her fingers, and one of the panels in the wall shimmered and became a bright mirror. Grabbing his hair hard, she dragged him in front of it, and forced his head up so he could see his reflection.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/>

  </p>
</div><p>"Look at yourself," she growled. "Cal Kestis—formerly apprentice to Jaro Tapal, formerly in league with Cere Junda, but now?" She yanked his hair for emphasis. "Now just a plaything for the Empire."</p><p>"Get their names out of your mouth," Cal shot back, but without as much bluster as he otherwise might have. Truth was, he did look like hell. Exhausted eyes stared back at him over the metal grating; on his clothes and hair, bits of dried blood and dirt showed the fight he'd been in. But that was nothing next to the simple, overarching fact: it did hurt his pride, to see himself like this. It was proof of his failure.</p><p><em>A better fighter wouldn’t have gotten captured, </em>he thought.<em> A better tactician would’ve seen the ambush coming.</em> He’d made a mistake, and the thing was, the part of his life where he was allowed to make mistakes was over. This one might cost his friends’ lives and his own.</p><p>“Indeed,” said the Inquisitor, as if she could read his mind, and he started. He’d nearly forgotton she was there.</p><p>She let go his hair and stepped back, and he relaxed momentarily—which, as it happened, was a mistake in itself. Moving faster than his eye could track, the Inquisitor sped forward and introduced her boot to the upper part of his stomach.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/>

  </p>
</div><p>Cal doubled forward and let out a strained cry. He'd been winded before, gotten overconfident sparring or caught a bad hit in a fight, but this was something else. It felt as if there was a pitch fire in his chest, burning and choking him with the smoke. Through the pain he could hear the Inquisitor pacing in front of him, back and forth, back and forth.</p><p>"Pathetic," she muttered.</p><p>Anger rose in him. He grit his teeth and focused, forcing his muscles to work, gulping shallowly at the air. He would escape. If only he had the Force, he would snap the cuffs like wet string—but no matter. He would break them through sheer force of will, and lightsaber or no, he would tear her—</p><p>When there was air enough to curse he reared up and lunged uselessly at her, flinging every oath he knew, until his taxed lungs failed him again and he had to pause to gasp.</p><p>"You're angry," she murmured. <em>"Good.</em> But if you're quite done—"</p><p>She flicked a finger at him, and Cal started in shock as the grille on his muzzle snapped shut. But not only that—the sides of it came to life, glowing blue, and electricity shot painfully through his mouth and jaw. To his horror, he found he could no longer move the lower half of his face. Tongue immobilized, speech impossible; the most he could do was give a low, trembling moan.</p><p>The Inquisitor laughed. Cal looked up at her, well aware that the terror he felt was showing plain on his face, but helpless to hide it. With everything stripped from him—freedom, weapons, the Force—his voice was the one defense he'd had left. As long as he could speak, he could taunt his enemy, probe for information, or if it came to it, beg for his life. Without it he was more animal than sentient, more object than human, and his heart thudded in his ears at how much more that fact might make his captor capable of.</p><p>—</p><p>The Second Sister smiled under her helmet and ran her fingers through the Jedi's flame-red hair again. It pleased her to note that this time he submitted to her touch without resistance.</p><p>"There now," she told him. "I like you much better like this."</p><p>He glanced at her, just long enough for her to catch the fear in his eyes, and quickly looked away. She moved in close, so close that the length of her thigh nearly brushed his torso where he knelt in front of her.</p><p>"Don't you agree?”</p><p>She could see him trembling now, although he made a valiant effort to master it. It was clear that her closeness distressed him. Of course, that was to be expected: she prided herself on her ability to strike fear, had put great effort into it. But perhaps there was another reason, one he wasn’t able to admit even to himself.</p><p>At the moment he was up on his knees; that wouldn’t do. She placed a hand on his shoulder and shoved down and back, forcing him to sit back on his heels. Then she lifted the toe of her boot and placed it, with a firm and even pressure, just above the join of his thighs.</p><p>He jerked back violently, but she was ready, one hand firm on the back of his neck.</p><p>“Do you keep the Temple code?” she asked, soft but not kind. “When was the last time you were... close... with someone?”</p><p>His face was turned away from her as far as it would go, eyes shut tight. She stroked his hair again, enjoying the softness, the beauty of it.</p><p>“You’re a handsome man, Cal Kestis. Don’t tell me some enterprising scrapper didn’t snap you up? Or perhaps you found another outlaw to bed down with?” She probed with the sole of her boot, persistent, seeking—and soon enough she was rewarded with a tangible change in him.</p><p>And oh, the look of despair and betrayal in those bright green eyes, when she slid the leather sole teasingly along him and then without warning bore down hard. He made a small sound, a sound of indignation, and she laughed.</p><p>“My job is to break you to harness,” she told him. “No one asks about my methods.”</p><p>The look on his face then was difficult to read. Defiance she had expected, but it was preceded by shock, or perhaps surprise. Curious, she lifted a finger and loosed his tongue.</p><p>“Something to say, Jedi?” she asked, as he winced and worked out the pain in his jaw.</p><p>“So that’s what you’re doing.” His voice was rough, and edged with anger. “I knew you were Jedi-hunters. I thought you just wanted to kill me. But it’s worse. You’re trying to <em>turn</em> me.”</p><p>“But of course. Did you think we would let such a useful asset go to waste? Be reasonable.”</p><p>“That’s monstrous,” he spat—but then as he looked at her, his face changed. “Hang on. Is that what they did to you?”</p><p>She made no reply.</p><p>“Hey,” he said, in the soft, gentling way people spoke to small animals or children. “Hey. It’s not too late. You don’t have to keep fighting for them. You always have a ch—“</p><p>The Second Sister shut the muzzle with a snap, ending the traitorous Jedi’s words in a short yelp. “I preferred you quiet,” she snarled, stepping back to wind up.</p><p>This time she landed her kick on his right side, square in his ribs. He staggered sideways with a grunt that she found deeply satisfying. So she gave him a few more: stomach, chest, left side, back to the right side, watching how his pain and desperation increased with each one. And she thought of his pale, easily-marked skin; today the bruises would be red, but tomorrow or the next day they would be blue-purple and spreading. Perhaps she would strip him then, and see for herself.</p><p>On the next blow she heard the <em>crack</em> under her boot and thrilled at it. He folded in half, forehead pressed to the floor, face drawn in agony. Ordinarily, she knew, he would scream, but all the muzzle allowed him was a drawn-out, pathetic whimper, punctuated by yelps as she jabbed at the wounded side with her toe.</p><p>She stepped back to watch him try to catch his breath. Oh, it was glorious, to finally have this one under her power. He was a capable fighter, and strong in body and will, even shackled and beaten like this. He would be a valuable tool in service to the Empire—in service to <em>her.</em></p><p>She caught his head up in her hands and raised him to his knees again, watching him wince with every shallow breath. Under her gloves his skin was warm and yielding.</p><p>“I will yoke you to the plow of the Empire,” she told him, the bright glory of her vision filling her heart. “And you will serve faithfully...”</p><p>Two tiny tears gathered in his despairing eyes.</p><p>“...until your last breath.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cal groaned. His ribs hurt like hell, he was still chained up, and the harder he tried to clear his head the muddier it became. The only good thing was that she'd turned the electricity to the muzzle back off before she left, although he'd had to engage in some humiliating nonverbal begging to get her to do it.</p><p>It didn't matter. If that was what it took to avoid spending the night with that awful thing powered on, he'd do it again.</p><p>He slumped to one side, careful of his injured ribs. Oh, it did feel good to get the pressure off his knees, but he was damned if he knew how he could possibly sleep like this. And he would need to rest, for whatever was coming next.</p><p>It was too painful to try to get more comfortable, so he lay still, the bright lights of the room still glowing red behind his eyelids. Thoughts whirled in his head. <em>Inquisitors, former Jedi, the plow of the Empire?, torture, escape plans, turning...</em></p><p>So much had happened, but he was in no state to make sense of it, much less come up with even a half-baked plan. In the end, physical exhaustion won out, and he slept.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I’ll continue my apparent tradition of pairing Star Wars torture fics with Steeleye Span songs. The title of this is taken from “Sir James the Rose,” which, while it isn’t a teriffic thematic match, <em>is</em> about a knight being hunted. Also, it’s a banger. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-9MwFFVtmqc">(link)</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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